


My lost, my lost was saying found

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt Mycroft Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25116502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: When Mycroft rescues his brother in Serbia, several unexpected events happen. Mycroft is wounded, his wound doesn't vanish under the force of his glare and, most confusing of all, a certain Inspector is intent on helping...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 4
Kudos: 144
Collections: Rupert Graves Birthday Collection 2020





	My lost, my lost was saying found

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for the Rupert Graves Birthday Project - I hope you enjoy it!

The darkness was closing in on them. Mycroft kept pushing the muddy water, his brother a dead weight under his arm. Yet in this eternal shadow, it felt like battling against a powerful God.

It  is said  that Kronos swallowed up his children; Poseidon included. Every time his wife gave him a child, he would kill it mercilessly. He thought he was thus escaping his destiny; to be overcome by his offspring.

Yet one of his sons was hidden  away. Zeus grew up to be strong and confident. He came back to his father and saved his brothers and sisters. Poseidon lived to become the god of tempests, swallowing up entire ships.

Perhaps it was the Holmes destiny, to drown in this infinity of water. But Mycroft had never been one to surrender to unknown deities. Since his teenage years, he has had only himself to count on. And he has managed to take care of his brother, even when Sherlock was running away from his help.

This time, Mycroft was the only one capable of helping. The rest of the world believed Sherlock had fallen, a pale feather landing in front of St Barts that awful day. Sherlock wasn't dead; he had exercised vengeance like a bloodthirsty ghost. Moriarty's web was no more than ashes scattered to the four winds.

No, they would not die today.

After an eternity of pushing water away, Mycroft emerged under a dark sky. It was hard to believe they were out of the water; the sky and the sea seemed to blur together on the horizon.

Mycroft frowned towards the shore. Once they had jumped from the ship, they had drifted off for some miles. They would have to hope they were emerging where Anthea was waiting with the car.

Sherlock was heaving great gulps of air next to him. Mycroft couldn't bring himself to let him go; it looked like he would sink right to the bottom of the sea otherwise. His skin was deadly pale under the moonlight.

"Locky..."

An explosion of sound resonated near his left ear. An old instinct whispered _gunshot_. The same instinct made him push Sherlock away from the sound. He didn't have time to shy away from the blow; something ripped against his clothes.

Cold water sipped against his skin like ghost fingers.

They swam to the opposite shore. Their clothes clung to their bodies, slowing them down as they ran in this nameless city. They weren't in the right place. Mycroft couldn't recognize anything around him - his brain couldn't _focus_. Mycroft heaved desperate breaths into his lungs. His torn waistcoat was stretched uncomfortably against his torso.

Mycroft supported himself against a street lamp. He could hear his brother arguing noisily with someone on the phone. Anthea, he supposed. _Livid that she wasn't there when they fired at us._

The world was getting clearer with the coming of the sun yet Mycroft's vision was still blurred. Sherlock appeared like a ghost, his hands moving too fast to keep up with. He had always been an energetic child. The first time he stood still was when he discovered the wonders of the microscope.

After a lifetime of waiting, the car appeared. Mycroft could have collapsed in relief, except - It wasn't Anthea behind the wheel. Now that Mycroft paid attention to it, he could see the car wasn't the model his staff used.

His reflexes had grown so slow that by the time he had stumbled two steps, the car was upon them. Mycroft braced for an impact that never came.

Lestrade got out. His face was stormy; brows furrowed and eyes flashing like thunder. Mycroft mused that he looked like an irate God of Old with his hair turning silver under the light of the dawn.

"Inspector, I-"

"Let's save the speeches for later. Right now we've got killers looking for you if I can believe what Sh-" Greg took an audible breath "-what Sherlock says."

"You can." Mycroft declared with a turn of his head.

"Well, not sure I can take your word for it. It's not like you haven't lied to  all of  us for two years either." As Greg saw Mycroft wobble on his feet, he sighed. "Right, come on."

He put one arm around the other man's waist and guided him to the car. His hand gently pressed against Mycroft's side before drawing away.

"Mycroft..."  There was something hurried in Greg's tone, something that made Mycroft raise his weary head.

Mycroft stared at the blood staining Greg's hand in muted horror. His mind felt  oddly blank - in a way it never was.

It took him an  embarrassingly long time to understand it was his blood.

Now that he knew of the injury, the pain made itself known. The strength of it took his breath and buckled his knees. Mycroft's hands grappled for the umbrella he had left in his office.

Instead, they found Greg's jacket. His hand clutched onto Greg's forearm with an urgency he didn't know he possessed.

"Be careful!"

Mycroft frowned at the urgency in Greg's words. He had no reason to be worried. Mycroft had endured worse during his training years; he had the scar on his back to remind him of what he'd survived.

"Nonsense, I'm f-" The final word got stuck in his throat as his muscles locked.

Worried dark eyes were the last thing Mycroft saw before darkness took him under.

\----------------- 

Raised voices were filtering into Mycroft's mind; waves rolling through his dreams, disturbing his sleep. He opened his eyes to a yellowish wall - neither pristine white nor yellow. Mycroft couldn't figure out the intended colour. Perhaps this is the point, he mused. _Instil total confusion in your guests with our new shade of yellowish-white._

Memories came back to him by degrees. His mind felt as sluggish as it used to be when he woke up from a nap in his childhood. He knew that he couldn't stay prone any longer. When he tried to get up,  however, his sides started burning and hurting.

He collapsed back on the mattress, exhausted as if he had completed a run. He had hardly moved an inch towards the door.

Parting the sheets revealed that he had been changed out of his clothes and into pyjamas. A bandage was tied securely around his chest. Blood tainted it in various places - _too much movement,_ Mycroft thought grimly.

He remembered going to rescue his brother alone. He had had to argue with Anthea yet, in the end, she had let him go.

He had rushed into danger without a second thought - as ever, in matters concerning  Sherlock.  Without the resources of the British government at his disposition, he was quite helpless. It had taken him hours and hours to get to Sherlock. He occupied the time with learning Serbian.

Once Sherlock was free, they had to undergo the  painstakingly difficult journey back. Sherlock was too feeble and slow; Mycroft was expecting the last of Moriarty's men to catch up at any moment. They had stopped at a port; in the boat they took Mycroft tended to Sherlock's wounds. Mycroft was positive there wouldn't be any scar.

Moriarty's last men had caught up to them when they were nearing England's shores. Mycroft had dragged his brother out of the boat - into the water.

The door opened, letting in the sounds of an argument. Mycroft recognized the voices of Doctor Watson and his brother. He repressed a smile; at last, they met again. It was high time his little brother reacquainted himself with the doctor.

The shouting should have been worrying. But Mycroft knew that was how Sherlock and John got past their issues. John would forgive Sherlock in time. Mycroft would bet his life on it.

Lestrade appeared in the entrance, bearing a tray with pills and water. His features were illuminated by a soft smile.  Mycroft wondered if that was what Eros was greeted with when he fell from Olympus to find Psyche - dark eyes and sunny smiles.

"Did I wake you?" Greg's voice was low and soft. Hearing it was like being wrapped in a blanket after tumbling in the Thames.

"No, I fear my brother and his doctor took care of that themselves." Mycroft let a small smile play on his lips, showing he wasn't truly bothered.

"How's the pain?" Gregory crept closer to the bed.

"Very mild, considering." Mycroft lied. After all, he didn't need to trouble the inspector any more. "I should 'get out of your hair', as they say, before long."

"What do you mean? You're not fit to move around. John could give his medical advice if you want but I'm pretty sure he'll tell you the same thing."

"I couldn't  possibly  outstay my welcome any longer."

"Who said you were outstaying? If anything, I'm insisting you stay here." Greg looked down at the sheets. "For your health."

"You appear to have forgotten the- extent of my betrayal towards you, inspect-"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm still furious." Greg let out a cold smile that he let go of with a sigh. "But with that bullet grazing you, you ought to be resting. You don't need an old copper screaming at you."

It was nothing more than a delayed farewell after all. Greg would wait until Mycroft felt better and then... Mycroft's stomach tightened at the thought. Mycroft ought to argue that he should go back to his place. He would have gotten up and called a car if he didn't feel dizzy with pain. At each word they had exchanged, his ribs had tightened painfully around his chest. Now blood was oozing out of his wound.

"I'll let you go back to sleep, then." Greg's knuckles brushed his cheek before he turned away.

Mycroft closed his eyes. The pain kept sleep at bay for a long time.

\-----------------

When Mycroft woke again, all was calm. Doctor Watson must have changed his bandages; they were no longer red but pristine white. It reminded Mycroft of hospitals. He shuddered when he remembered he could have very well ended up there.

It was childish, this fear - as were all fears, Mycroft supposed. Yet he couldn't rid himself of it. It had been there in his childhood and it had only gotten worse once the memories of visiting Sherlock added up.

When Mycroft arrived his brother was usually unconscious. He looked vulnerable in a way he hadn't when they were children; his skin pulled taut over his bones. Each time, it had seemed the worse he could endure; to see his brother lying there, between life and death, while he remained helpless by his side.

Yet the worse always came afterwards, when Sherlock woke up. The lines came back on his face, making his little brother look like an elderly, wrinkly chap. His boyish smile was replaced with a scowl once he recognized Mycroft.

Sherlock would pick a fight to be left alone and Mycroft would let him. He had never been a comforting presence, he was aware of it. His hands were too cold to bring warmth, too brittle to wipe the tears away.

"I've brought breakfast." The careful words made Mycroft look up in surprise.

Gregory Lestrade was standing next to the bed. It was telling that Mycroft hadn't heard him come in. _Not fit for legwork anymore._

"I've brought all kinds since I didn't know what you liked - and you know how helpful Sherlock is at that kind of thing. Anyway, I'm sure we'll find something you fancy in all this."

Mycroft took his eyes off the picture Lestrade was making - big, concerned eyes glinting in the sunlight and shy smile. He belatedly noticed the tray in Greg's hands. You could no longer discern the colour of it. It was piled up with food; cereals, bread, pastries, coffee, tea and dozens of other things. Greg deposited it on the bed with a slight grunt.

"This is- I couldn't possibly -" Mycroft looked from the tray to Gregory, unable to settle on either of them.

"I wasn't gonna let you starve" Mycroft let out a  slightly hysterical giggle - there was enough for a small army. "C'me on, I'll join you. Cooking these eggs left me famished."

Greg sat next to Mycroft with the greatest care, arranging his limbs so he took the least space. Mycroft stared at the distance between their knees, unable to pinpoint why it bothered him so.

"And don't you forget your pills. Don't think I didn't notice; I'm a detective, a sleuth!" Greg let out a chuckle at his joke; his eyes sparkling with mirth. For a while, there wasn't anything else in the world - the entire universe silent for the sake of one laugh.

Mycroft ate mostly in silence, letting Greg fill in with stories of his aunt's cooking. Mycroft didn't dare ask about his mother. He already knew what had happened from Greg's file, yet it felt like a subject too intimate.

Gregory would be rid of him in a few days, once he felt better. He wasn't about to open up his heart to Mycroft; he must have a plethora of friends to talk to.

"What did this croissant did to you?" Greg was laughing yet his eyes were guarded, almost worried.

Mycroft looked down to find his hands tearing up the pastry in tiny crumbs.

"I- apologize, inspector. I didn't mean to insult the lovely-" Mycroft brushed off the crumbs with delicate care. "- lovely breakfast you've prepared."

"It's nothing." Greg declared in a gruff voice. His hand hovered in the space between them before falling back on his own side of the bed. "I'm more worried about you, your health, than the crumbs on the bed."

Mycroft smiled  thinly. "You mustn't concern yourself, Inspector. I am suffering from nothing more than bruised ribs and a wound to the side."

"You mean" Greg answered, brows drawn "you're recovering from  being shot ."

Mycroft looked to the window, repressing a huff of impatience. This wound was  merely  a graze; he wasn't under any risk of infection. Gregory was a stubborn man.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Gregory pick up the tray and get up. Mycroft turned his head towards him, keeping the tension he felt bottled up inside.

The last thing he wanted was to  be left  alone. It allowed too much space for his body, his pain.

He didn't know how to ask.

"Y'know, Sherlock explained what happened. Well, John filled in most of the details. I can't say I approve but-" Greg shrugged self-consciously. "I've got a sister, Jill. I guess you know about her. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing for her."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit, Inspector. You're too loyal and kind to deceive people this way."

"What I'm saying is, I don't know that I wouldn't have done it if it was the only way to get her out alive." Greg rubbed his knuckles, thinking. "If Sherlock had asked me to help him, I wouldn't have hesitated either."

Mycroft's breath stuttered out of him.  Even after  being lied to, after having his career dragged in the dirt, after losing the trust of everyone around him, Greg remained loyal. It was inconceivable. It was certainly more than what either of the Holmes brothers deserved, and yet...

"Inspector, would you-" Mycroft swallowed. His thoughts were spiralling out of control and his pain had started again. "I'm sorry. I have trouble thinking  clearly ."

Greg left the tray on a low table near the door - _the kind of table one hurt one's toes on,_ Mycroft mused.

"I'm sorry I brought it up now. You get all snarky and I forget you almost died two days ago."

Mycroft could have scoffed at the exaggeration, except Greg's gaze was earnest. He  merely  bowed his head in response.

"Now, there's no need to stay awake for me." Greg grinned at Mycroft's slower and slower blinks. "Sleep is the best medicine."

" I believe  the phrase concerns laughing."

"What a poor caretaker I make." Greg sat back next to Mycroft. His fingers brushed away a strand of hair. "Still, sleeping a bit more can't hurt."

Mycroft's eyes crossed trying to follow Greg's fingers. He gave up after a few seconds and closed his eyes. He tucked his head more securely  under Greg's fingers and promptly fell asleep.

\-----------------

It had been days of sleep and waking up. Mycroft could now no longer remember where the dreams began and where reality ended.

Greg was there through it all, staying long after Sherlock and John had gone back to 221B - ever the unshakable duo. He had insisted upon taking a few days off, stating that he hadn't taken a holiday in too long.

Mycroft failed to see how making breakfast for a bedridden politician was relaxing. But then, he hadn't taken a lot of holidays himself.

John checked up on his vitals every two days before declaring he was fit to go back to work.  Naturally, Mycroft had taken care of important meetings and paperwork from his laptop.  But he couldn't conduct everything from a bed; Anthea had already postponed an appointment with the Prime Minister twice .

Greg entered the room once John left. He stayed silent for a few seconds, shifting his weight from one side to the other. It was a curious look on him; he had always been so put-together, even when faced with Sherlock's theatrics.

"The doc' said you're good to go." Greg eyed Mycroft's suit waiting for him on the dresser. "Are you- staying for dinner?"

Mycroft fiddled with the cuffs of the pyjamas Greg had lent him. He convinced himself Greg was only asking to be polite. The fact he had forgiven Sherlock didn't mean Mycroft was no longer to blame.

If Mycroft closed his eyes, he could still see Greg in his dark, dark suit. There had been dark circles under his eyes and guilt around his ankles, slowing his steps.

Mycroft had been unable to look into his eyes that day. After the funeral, he had taken care not to run into the inspector again. And if the cameras followed closely  a certain DI when he walked by, well, no-one had to know.

Staying for dinner would imply hours of stilted conversation and veiled disdain. Mycroft was a politician; he  was used  to it - in truth, it defined most of his relationships, except one.

"I shouldn't." Seeing Greg's shoulders crumple made Mycroft go on. "I cannot express enough gratitude for all you did for me. Please know that if I can return the favour in any way..."

"You know that's not why I did this." Greg shook his head. "I don't care about debts and rewards."

"No, of course not." Greg was  simply  too kind for his own good. He had done the same thing for Sherlock, a lifetime ago. "I retract my offer, then. I wouldn't want to seem to be bribing you."

Greg bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "It didn't take very well the last time you tried that. Best not repeat the experience."

Mycroft could feel his eyes crinkle against his better judgement. Something warm unfurled somewhere in his chest - he swallowed it back down.

In the depths of his mind, he could admit that he would miss Greg. Everything would feel terribly desolate, once he returned to his vast, empty flat - his fortress of ice. Mycroft had the strange urge to let his eyes wander over Greg's face - taking him in, memorizing every detail.

"Let's keep it as a simple thank you, then." Mycroft inclined his head, hiding his expression.

"If I'm being honest-" Greg shuffled his feet a bit closer to the bed. "I should be the one thanking you,  really. I had forgotten how nice it was to come home to someone."

Greg coloured slightly . Mycroft quite wanted to get up and kiss his inflamed cheek. He crossed his ankles with care, hoping Greg couldn't read the thought on his face.

His heart was a hopeless, wretched thing. Mycroft could hide it away, it only took one sunny smile from Lestrade for it to beat again, strong.  Mycroft could repeat all day long that Greg was quite unattainable, the miserable organ kept on worshipping his every step.

Right now, his heart was thudding in time with Greg's breaths, hoping, hoping...

"Even after discovering the depth of my deception, you opened your house to me." Mycroft got up, intent on collecting his belongings with dignity. "I deserved nothing less than you hanging up on Sherlock when he called you for help."

"I did, actually. The bastard kept calling." Greg shook his head. "But you're wrong, you know. I wasn't about to turn my back on you 'cause you had done everything to keep Sherlock alive. You collapsed in my arms, bleeding out. How could you imagine I'd leave you there?"

Mycroft looked at the line forming between Greg's eyebrows, his clenched jaw.

_Sing, goddess, of Peleus' son Achilles' anger,_

"Many individuals would have," Mycroft added quietly.

"Well, I'm not them." Greg sighed. "I  was terrified  you were gonna die there."

"It would take an  abnormally  long time to bleed out because of a graze, Lestrade." Mycroft let his eyebrow twitch up, followed by the curve of his lip.

"Oh don't get all sassy now. You weren't there, you passed out." Greg looked back into Mycroft's eyes. "And call me Greg, will you?"

"Gregory."

Mycroft had thought the name many times, in the confines of his mind. He had never known what it would taste like, leaving his lips. It felt like eating honey from the jar, warm sunlight bathing his face.

"Yes?" Greg was a bit closer now. The light of the bulb overhead shifted over his face, making his eyes look even darker.

"Gregory," Mycroft repeated, as soft as a secret.

He had always thought people repeating themselves were dull. He abhorred the habit. At this moment, he had nothing more to offer than this - a name, a plea.

Their lips met in silence. Mycroft's heart, that foolish, torn organ, stirred back to life.

It was gentle like a goodnight kiss - lips locked in the dark, Greg's fingers curving against Mycroft's cheek.  They could have passed for a long-lasting couple if it weren't for Mycroft's hands hugging Greg tightly. His fingertips dug into Greg's shoulders, anchoring them.

When they came up for breath, Greg pressed his forehead against Mycroft's. Mycroft could feel Greg's lips hovering over his mouth. They curved in the shape of a smile.

"I wanted to try this new recipe Mrs H sent me. Would you stay tonight?"

Greg's fingers were weaving through Mycroft's hair. Mycroft suppressed a shiver, pressed closer still.

"I'll notify Anthea. She'll send a car to collect me here tomorrow."

Mycroft was rewarded  with a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. He was helpless to the sloppy smile stretching his lips.


End file.
